


What a Fool to Imagine

by Loz



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Bottom Derek, M/M, POV Derek, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Sexual Fantasy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-19
Updated: 2012-12-19
Packaged: 2017-11-21 14:02:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,011
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/598559
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Loz/pseuds/Loz
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Derek doesn’t like Stiles. He’s too bright, too loud, too much of everything.</p>
            </blockquote>





	What a Fool to Imagine

**Author's Note:**

> Title from the Ben Folds Five song ‘Thank You for Breaking my Heart’.

Derek doesn’t like Stiles. He’s too bright, too loud, too much of everything. Too much fear, too much confidence. Derek doesn’t know how he hasn’t imploded yet under the weight of his own contradiction. 

Not only does Derek not _like_ Stiles, he doesn’t understand him. Derek hates those days he finds himself questioning Stiles and his motives --- wondering how he always says one thing and does another. Claims he isn’t a savior, saves everyone anyway. Says he’s scared of danger, goes rushing into a fight. Says he detests Derek, looks at him sometimes like he never wants to turn away.

It twists him up inside, the time he can devote to thinking about the infuriating man who is too young and too wise by turns. 

If he could, Derek thinks, he’d cut Stiles from his life entirely. But he can’t. And the size of Beacon Hills and the dependency of his pack are excuses, but they’re damn good ones, as far as he’s concerned. That way there’s no need for him to realize that he doesn’t seem to have the will.

*

This is different from the other times. 

Stiles is soft and pliable beneath him, not wriggling, not surging up, just lying still, one foot hooked around Derek’s ankle. He isn’t the one who initiated the kiss. He lets Derek press his thumb at the corner of his lips, pull down slowly to open his mouth up. Derek kisses like it’ll be his last time, and it will, he knows it will, he’ll never kiss Stiles like this again. Licking into Stiles’ mouth instantly becomes his favorite past-time. The muffled noises of enjoyment and eager shifting of Stiles’ lips against his own are intoxicating. The way a hand glides up Derek’s back, tracing the edge of his tattoo has him grinding down a little harder, insinuating himself deeper into the curl of Stiles’ body. 

There’s a gasp and then an answering cant of Stiles’ hips, a tilt back of his head. Derek takes the opportunity to lick and nip down his neck, press an open mouthed kiss to the hollow of his throat, just below his Adam’s apple. 

“Derek,” Stiles whines. 

“That’s my name, don’t wear it out,” Derek answers, because he always feels young and foolish in these moments, can’t resist teasing. Mostly because Stiles always retaliates. 

Stiles flips him easily, and, oh, yes, this is more like it. The forcefulness Derek has come to know so well. The bright flicker in Stiles’ eyes, the pout of his lips as he surveys the body splayed before him. Derek knows what he looks like, but the heat in Stiles’ gaze surprises him every time, it’s always so hungry. 

“Off,” Stiles commands, and Derek obeys. 

He shrugs out of his gray shirt, tosses it off the bed, not bothering to see where it lands. Stiles follows suit, peeling off three frustrating layers, slow as he can manage. Derek flicks his nose up to signal he should get on with it, as if he has any control of the situation. Stiles smiles down at him. 

“Nuh uh, buddy,” Stiles says. “You deserve all the pain you can get.”

When Stiles is finally bare chested, Derek places his hands at his sides, gliding up over his ribcage. The flush there is because of him, _for_ him, and it’s difficult not to want to touch every inch of it. Stiles rolls back down to kiss Derek hard and filthy, using his tongue in ways that should be outlawed. He rocks his hips forward and back and because of how he’s straddling Derek it’s complete and unmitigated torture. Each time he moves his cock brushes against Derek’s --- the only problem being the fact they’re both still wearing jeans. And that is absolutely deliberate. Stiles is a devious and calculating asshole when he wants to be. Which is _always_. Derek halfheartedly attempts to buck him off so he can rectify the situation. 

“Stop writhing.”

“I’m not writhing. An Alpha doesn’t writhe,” Derek retorts. 

“Stop wriggling, then.”

“That’s worse.”

“Stop,” Stiles orders. “Stay, boy, stay.”

Derek glares, but Stiles just laughs and captures Derek’s lips again on an exhalation. The taste of Stiles’ laughter is cherry sweet and deliciously cruel. 

“Derek,” Stiles says again, although it should be impossible, Derek’s currently sucking on his tongue. “Derek.” His voice changes, becomes deeper, throatier. 

“Derek!” again, more insistent. 

Derek wakes up and squints toward the voice. It’s Boyd, not Stiles. Boyd, who is looking at him askance. It takes a lot of self-will not to partially shift and make him skitter back from his wrath. He springs up, instead, purposefully putting all of his energy into the movement. Squares his shoulders, tightens his lips. 

“What do you need?”

*

Stiles is tapping against his steering wheel. Loudly. Derek can’t block the sound because it’s a stakeout and the whole point is surveillance. Derek doesn’t even think Stiles realizes he’s doing it, since in all other ways he’s trying to be silent. Hasn’t started his usual spiel, at least. Hasn’t provided a running commentary about his day. Derek kind of misses it. Wouldn’t miss the tapping, though. Half of him wants to reach over and bandage Stiles’ fingers and the other wants to reach over and clasp his hand in his own, press the nerves out of him with gentle reassurance. The contrast between the two urges has him doing nothing, not even telling Stiles to quit it.  


He’s here to help Stiles help his father catch a gang of criminals that Stiles is positive is comprised of supernatural beings. Normally he’d liked to think he’d refuse, but he owes him from months before, the time Stiles provided him with a quick getaway against a horde of zombies. Not conventional cinema-style zombies, but bewitched, hypnotized humans. Derek couldn’t, in all conscience, kill the creatures, even though they wanted to kill him. The solution had been to escape getting gnawed and work on finding the source of the magic. Stiles had been instrumental there, too. Actually, Derek owes Stiles an imperial fuck-ton of favors. He abhors that, it itches under the surface of his skin.

Scott’s helping too, sitting in Derek’s Camaro at the other end of the street with Erica. Derek still doesn’t know how the placements worked out this way. He has a sinking feeling he insisted. If he could stop feeling like he always has to protect Stiles, he would, but parts of his brain don’t listen to reason. The animalistic side of him that’s all instinct and fight or flight insists on putting himself in harm’s way to ensure Stiles is safe. He hasn’t figured that one out yet.

The tapping began as a simple one-two-three-four, but has transformed into a swing beat. The faster it gets, the louder it gets, until it’s all Derek can concentrate on. He can’t tear his eyes away from watching Stiles’ hands. They’re large and capable-looking. Look too big for his body. It’s all too easy to visualize how they’d be placed on him --- at his hips, around his biceps, over his back.

“You wanna cut it out, Krupa?” he asks finally, rolling his eyes.

“Whuh?” Stiles responds, eyes glazed as he turns to Derek. 

“I’m getting sick of the rhythm section,” Derek says, gesturing to Stiles’ hands. “You might want to switch to the strings. I’m sure you’ve got a tiny violin around here somewhere.”

Stiles huffs out a breath with a quirk of his lips. “Tell you what, you ask kindly enough, and I’ll blow my own trumpet,” he says with a wry smile. 

He turns his attention away from Derek again, concentrating his focus on a shadow outside the opposite house. It isn’t anything, Derek’s been keeping tabs. He tries not to let his annoyance at the dismissal show. 

An hour later, they’re chasing after something that looks like a puddle of mercury. Scott and Erica have already apprehended the other two robbers; an animated ventriloquist’s dummy and its warlock puppet-master. The puddle’s lightning quick and even if they catch up, Derek doesn’t know what they’re going to do. It isn’t like they have a freeze ray or flambé torch, and somehow he doesn’t think his claws will be much use. Last he checked, he hadn’t much luck in cutting fluid to shreds. Thankfully, the puddle transforms into a distinctly human shape when they corner it in an alleyway and he claims victory with a snarl.

“Thanks,” Stiles says, once they’ve negotiated for the warlock and the liquid shapeshifter to turn themselves into the police. The dummy flat-out refuses, but Stiles is very insistent when he’s holding a match. 

“Anytime,” Derek replies. He is resolutely not offended by the skepticism on Stiles’ face.

*

Derek’s arching back as far as he can go as Stiles plasters kisses down his legs. The torture’s been ongoing since the middle of the afternoon. It’s now well into dusk. He’s naked, but Stiles is wearing sweats and a loose white shirt. Earlier on, Derek sucked the shirt material until it was see-through, all along Stiles’ stomach, bringing his treasure trail into stark relief. Stiles’ long fingers had scrabbled and scraped against his scalp, pulled at his hair. But now he has no such power. Now he’s helpless, rutting against the heat and sinful torment inflicted upon his most vulnerable places --- the back of his knees, the insides of his thighs. The stubble Stiles has grown over a weekend of not shaving is scratching against him, wearing down all his defenses. 

“Tell me what you want,” Stiles says, like he always does when they get to this point. 

“You know,” Derek replies, completely predictable. 

It’s true. He never has to be more specific. Stiles always gives him exactly what he needs. Stiles picks up the lube from beside his leg, tapping a swing-beat against the outside of his thigh before he does so. The snick of the cap is bliss. Long fingers open Derek up methodically, carefully, like this is their first time. It is, of course, it is to Stiles. Stiles bites at the curve of his ass as he works his fingers in and out, increases the pressure, blows air on his hole in the promise of more. He takes his time with it, adding finger after finger, not heeding Derek’s desperate rutting. 

“You can--” Derek starts, but Stiles cuts him off.

“Yeah, yeah I could. But not yet.”

Stiles fucks him like this so slowly, angling the pads of his fingers so they hit Derek’s prostate only once or twice every minute. And he makes a warning sound every time Derek goes to finish himself off, bats his hand away effortlessly. 

When Stiles finally nudges at Derek’s hole with the tip of his cock, Derek can’t contain his sigh of satisfaction. The sigh becomes fractured and broken as soon as Stiles drives forward. He’s perfect in how he fills Derek, the way he pushes everything good and right against all of his senses. The only thing Derek’s missing is the ability to watch Stiles’ expressions, but he can hear his heartbeat, and smell his sweat, and feel Stiles all the way through. It’s enough. 

Stiles’ left hand slides against Derek’s hip and his right presses down on his lower back. No matter how much Derek tries to take charge of the pace, those two anchors hold him in place. Stiles sets up a constant rhythm, unremitting. Derek can feel his heart beat climb to match Stiles’; crashing inside him forcefully.

“This is the most of everything,” Stiles moans, already sounding wrecked, and Derek imagines he can see his eyes squeezing shut, eyelashes fluttering, mouth falling open. 

The thrusts become erratic, hard, and when Stiles slumps forward on his back and takes Derek’s cock in hand, he knows Stiles is close. 

But he is closer. It only takes one well-angled surge forward before he’s spilling over Stiles’ hand, painfully biting his lower lip and digging his fingers into the bedding. He sucks in breath after breath as Stiles resumes thrusting, doesn’t whimper like he wants to at the continued assault on his over-sensitive nerves.

When Stiles comes he collapses, boneless, onto Derek’s back. And Derek does not mind. There is nothing he wants more than this, all Stiles is willing to give him, the stretch of every muscle in his body and the haze of contentment.

*

Derek hates Stiles. Hates how he’s carved a niche for himself in a life that had no free space. Hates how he’s awakened emotions Derek thought had been burned out of him long ago. Hates how Stiles is so oblivious to all of it, completely ignorant to the fact he’s forced Derek to compromise between duty and self-preservation. 

Stiles never seems to notice that Derek is just as incapable of looking away as he is. He doesn’t sense how attuned to him Derek is, how he’ll anticipate a movement or a word and respond accordingly. No, he grumbles and grouses about his lack of care, his clear insignificance in Derek’s eyes, and _if he only knew_.

*

They’re watching a movie together. By now, Derek would have expected hands in pants and fever-heated skin, but that hasn’t happened. There’s been no fumbling, no lewd suggestions. Not even any innuendo. There’s always innuendo. Stiles has settled into his side, pulled his laptop forward, and is insisting Derek enjoys _Wreck It Ralph_. Not just watches. Enjoys. Apparently, it's a travesty he hasn't seen all of Stiles' favorite animated movies.

Derek doesn’t pay attention to the movie in a way he’d be able to recount the plot. Couldn’t, very easily. He concentrates on Stiles’ steady breathing, the curve of his lips, the warmth he exudes. It isn’t only a literal warmth, it’s figurative too. The cadence of Stiles’ laugh flips Derek’s heart over and over, until it’s cracked wide open, creating a shape large enough for Stiles to slot into, a space he can complete. 

When Derek awakens he blinks up at the plastered ceiling of his apartment and muses discontentedly. This wasn’t the way these dreams usually go. It’s all been sexual, before. Countless different positions and several divergent moods. Hate sex and frantic ‘we almost died’ sex, Sunday afternoon sex and early morning sex, and everything physical. An emotional connection too, sometimes --- often --- but not separated from lips against lips and whole-body exertion. He hasn’t fantasized about pure companionship. Never been subject to a mere sharing of interests. It rattles him. 

*

Derek’s sitting on Stiles’ bed pointedly not thinking about the number of fantasies he’s had about pinning Stiles to these very sheets. Stiles has finished cutting, pasting and organizing the information he found about Tiyanaks and is waiting for his printer to finish. He swings on his chair and faces Derek, piercing him with a look that isn’t a glare, but isn’t exactly kindly either. The gaze is more assessing.

It’s a scene so familiar to Derek it feels like an oft-watched film.

“You know what your problem is,” Stiles says. He frames it as a question, but it’s a statement.

Derek doesn’t complete the thought with _you_. He doesn’t want to start a fight, even though he tends to revel in all of Stiles’ focus under those circumstances. There’s nothing quite like getting Stiles to stop bouncing from thought to opinion and hone in on a single subject, even if that subject is “The Many and Varied Ways Derek Freaking Hale Sucks”. 

“Clearly I don’t,” Derek answers, blasé. 

He knows he doesn’t have to wait long for the answer and he’s expecting something ridiculous and mocking anyway --- a joke about his predisposition to wearing leather, or the way he shaves. He’s heard every manner of these in the three years he’s known Stiles.

“You severely underestimate a person’s ability to see through your surly exterior to the true man within,” Stiles says, deceptively casual in his tone of voice, but heart rate kicking up a notch.

“The surly true man within,” Derek counters.

“The cantankerous, curmudgeonly true man within,” Stiles confirms with a smile. “Who cares more than most anyone would think possible considering the shit he’s been through and quite possibly has a bright fluffy heart of gold hidden way down in his depths.”

Derek scowls. “Ha-de-fucking-ha,” he says. He doesn’t appreciate it when Stiles is this cutting. Light ridicule he can take, but outright disgust hurts too much.

But Stiles isn’t actually being insulting, Derek realizes in the next second. For once, he isn't being sarcastic, he means it.

“What, you’re trying to tell me your constant protection of Beacon Hills is because you’re bored?”

“No,” Derek replies, averting his gaze to the carpet. He shakes his head, curt. “It’s about responsibility.”

“That’s your other problem,” Stiles says, and Derek’s surprised that his voice is so much closer. Stiles has gotten a lot stealthier over the time they’ve known one another. It’s forever disconcerting. “You think you’re responsible for everything.”

Stiles settles next to him on the bed and Derek looks at him in confusion. There’s a pink blush over Stiles’ cheekbones and he’s chewing on his lower lip. He nudges awkwardly into Derek’s side then turns to face him. Derek can’t help but shift until they’re viewing one another again, head-on.

Derek raises both of his eyebrows in query and Stiles responds by leaning forward and kissing him. 

It’s nothing like any of the kisses Derek’s fantasized about before, not in taste or texture or surety. It’s too wet, and too timid, and too frantic. But it’s also absolutely perfect. Derek rests a hand against the back of Stiles’ neck and tugs him closer, opening his mouth up for more of Stiles’ exploration.

And Derek can’t lie to himself anymore, because this certainly isn’t hatred, and he understands why Stiles is kissing him, even though it seems impossible --- they've gotten to the point where something has to give, it might as well be them both --- and there’s nothing he likes more than the flash and flare of Stiles’ eyes as he pulls away and stares.

**Author's Note:**

> I am [lozenger8](http://lozenger8.tumblr.com) on tumblr if you want to follow me. I'm always happy to connect with more people. I'm multifannish as opposed to all _Teen Wolf_ all the time, but I do frequently have _Teen Wolf_ posts.


End file.
